


Waking Up Inside

by CavannaRose



Series: Assorted Marvel Fics [5]
Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Parallel, Coffee Shops, Dogs, Excessive guitar porn, F/M, Guitars, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Swearing, injured animal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: Frank Castle was an enigma. People believed all kinds of things about him, but you knew a thing or two yourself. One, he wasn't as dead as the papers had proclaimed. Two, he was a pretty decent tipper. Three, part of you wanted to see him again, and you had to get over that.





	1. Chapter 1

Just because you've seen someone's face, doesn't mean you've met them. Just because you've spoken, met eyes... none of that mattered. No one ever truly notices the person pouring their coffee late at night. Everyone has their own struggles, their own long days that they're trying to forget. The waitress though... she notices every person that comes into that diner. Knows their routines, their orders, who tips and who is so wrapped up in their own shit they can't wait to pour it down on anyone else. They know when someone in the diner isn't on the up and up. They've got nothing to do but wash stained counters, serve coffee to unappreciative assholes, and watch the news on the flickering television screen in the dining room.

Most people don't notice, most people couldn't even begin to care. Except him. Survival meant he had to notice every damn thing every minute of every day. Still, even a man like Frank Castle needed the semblance of human contact now and then. The barking dogs at the construction site didn't count. Jackals, circling anything that might be weakness. People like that were barely human, they didn't ease that loneliness that even he couldn't ignore. There were risks, ending the week at the same place every night. He kept his face covered, the beard helped, so did the novels. Classics. No one would associate them with the man the media claimed he was. Still, as much calm as he tried to exude, he was on edge. There weren't a lot of choices out here, unfortunately, and none open this late. He made do, Frank was used to making do.

Of course you knew who he was, you weren't stupid. His face had been plastered all over the country. Between the broken nose and the dark, angry eyes, he was unmistakable. It didn't matter much to you though. He paid his bill, tipped well, and quite frankly (don't laugh at the pun) there was always less trouble when he was there. Whether they recognized his face or not, the patrons seemed to sense that something was different in the air of the diner. The only thing you ever heard him say was a quiet "Thank you, ma'am." It startled you at first, this part of the city didn't lend itself to a lot of politeness, but then you remembered he'd been a soldier. A marine. Though not all the soldiers, former or otherwise, that wandered through had the same set of manners. He was always dressed the same. Ball cap, white t-shirt, plaid work shirt, dirty jeans and workboots. Sometimes the palms of his hands were raw from doing whatever it was that kept him busy now that he wasn't killing crooks. Part of you wanted to offer some kind of assistance, an antiseptic, a bandaid... but the idea was just pushing things a little too far for you.

Your interactions were small, simple. They boiled down to 15 words in total, exchanged in different orders sometimes, but they were all that was between you and the not-quite a dead mean. "Did you want more coffee?", "Anything else tonight?" "Thank you, ma'am.", and "No thank you, ma'am." It was nothing, but somehow you felt like part of you shared just this tiny corner of The Punisher's life. A part where he was just Frank Castle, and you... well you were a little less invisible under his sharp gaze.

Then one night, he just stopped showing up. You couldn't help but be disappointed. He had been like your secret from the world. A day later the news was emblazoned with tales of a copycat, Punisher-style slaughter. First at a construction yard, and then at some mobster card game. Inside, you knew the truth. Frank Castle wouldn't be coming back to your little diner. Someone had woken the Beast within him, and he would go back to his mission. Part of you was glad the world had that extra layer of protection, the other mourned the man. Not to mention the nosedive your tips took without him there.

It wasn't all horrible. With the extra tips you'd scrounged away, not only from Frank (as you'd taken to calling him in your mind), but from the tips that didn't get stolen off the tables while he was in the diner as well, you'd saved enough to move. Somewhere safer, you hoped. One way or another, you were getting out of the shithole you currently lived in, and whether he knew it or not, that was because of him. The Punisher saved people wherever he went, even if he didn't know it. Even if he hadn't meant to.

You packed your meager belongings, bade farewell to the one neighbour you didn't hate, then gathered up your cat and headed further into the city. Okay, maybe Hell's Kitchen wasn't a dramatically upwardly mobile move to some, but it was the nicest place you'd ever been able to afford, and you had a bit of a safety net, stashed in a barely noticeable hole in your mattress. Fuck banks, their fees, and all the bullshit that came with them.

Finding work, on the other hand, wasn't the easiest. Even with all your experience, you ended up with yet another diner job slinging coffee. At least this one wasn't overnights, and on your nights off (you actually had some now), you could come in with your guitar and play on the little stage. Maybe it was a sign of gentrification, these open-mic talent nights, but it felt good to be doing something creative, something that fed your soul, not just your wallet. The first few times, you were so nervous you thought you would pass out. You'd never played in front of anyone but your cat before. Still, if you could meet the eyes of Frank Castle and not flinch, what were a bunch of hipsters sipping lattes? You put thoughts of The Punisher from your mind, focusing on yourself for a little while. Maybe, just maybe, you could make your own world a little better here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music was release. It made you forget everything, until it didn't.

It was Wednesday night, maybe not the most ideal part of the week for Open Mic Talent at a dingy diner, but it was your favourite. Even though it was your only night off this week, you were walking in the diner door, banged up old Fender acoustic over your shoulder. Nodding to the part time girl, you moved to the ragged looking line of nervous hipsters with guitars, and bored looking emo girls with sheaves of lyrics they had memorized months ago. Somehow, as you stood in the same line week by week, you had to find the confidence you held when you were serving coffee. What was so easy when you were faceless, anonymous, was so much more difficult when you gave yourself a name, when you exposed yourself and your emotions within the tiny microcosm of this Wednesday night diner crowd.

Week after week, it was always the same six performers, and you had all developed a sort of ritualistic routine to it all. No matter what order you arrived at the diner in, you all performed in the same order. The bearded hipster in his 20s with the Martin LX1E played his latest love songs, Then the older hipster, maybe in his mid-30s, boasting a truly ridiculous mustache would hit the stage with his Taylor GS Mini Guitar and play some romping ballads about death and despair. After him came the 19 year old emo girl with the nose piercing singing smooth reggae anthems about political unrest, with surprising breadth of knowledge. Weaving slightly from either emotion or general instability came the next emo girl, woman really, in her 40s with greying hair bleached completely white and shorn into a buzzcut, rapping about abuse and anger. After her came the last hipster, barely 15, in his too big plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up, playing an ancient Fender Hellcat, riotous punk-styled instrumentals with no words. As each performer finished, they took a seat near the stage, an unspoken promise of support from this divers group of people, surprisingly varied despite their similarities. Maybe it was a result of the location, or just the mundanity of the venue, here in the diner on a Wednesday night.

Finally you mounted the stage, feeling that first wash of anxiety fade into normality. This motley crew at the fringe of the Kitchen gave you a sense of belonging, and as you perched on the stool, laying the F-5-12 gently in your lap, you looked out over them all with a soft smile. The rest of the crowd was invisible, these people had encouraged you, supported you. They were who you played for, for fifteen minutes every Wednesday night they set your soul free. The first part of your set was familiar songs, those you'd played before. Warming up your voice and your fingers before trying something new. Finally it was time. Your tune began slowly, hand picking the strings like a lover's caress. Finally you sing, words you'd struggled to put to paper, words that would embarrass you tomorrow, but not tonight. Not here.

" _broken girl come to light_  
_how far does his reach extend in the misery of your own mind_  
_casting luminescence behind one more tired smile_

 _I see the break of day in your pupils and wonder_  
_when you became so much of me_  
_one more unpolished injury locked in struggle with itself_ "

You end the line with a small musical flourish, plucking a return to the opening melody, gathering yourself, sneaking a peak at your audience. The sweet young hipster in the plaid gives you an encouraging smile, so what can you do but continue?

" _accept the callous embrace of another promise come undone_  
_and let it seep into the spine of your dawning disillusionment_

 _every line on your face used to spell magnificent with your name_  
_but now it screams my own torment into an abysmal night_  
_but even the echo holds a trace of beauty in its fading_ "

You tame the guitar strings masterfully, having the music and your voice fade to a whisper as you come to the end, letting it fall away almost to a memory before stilling. You take a moment to breathe, hands resting over the strings, eyes fixed to hands, waiting. Finally your friends, people who you spent an hour a week with but never spoke to began to applaud, and you felt that warmth of human connection so much of your life was missing. You raised your head, blush stained cheeks hot with triumph as you met each pair of eyes with gratitude in your heart.

As your gaze passed from face to face, you froze, catching sight of a broad set of shoulders in the back of the diner, near the door. No... it couldn't be. Ball cap pulled low and collar turned up, stood a figure so familiar it made your legs go weak. Hands shaking you packed away the Fender, carefully slinging it over your shoulder before you headed to confront him. Pausing to touch hands in communion with the young emo girl, bumping foreheads with the old woman and her buzzcut. Small routines that normalized your moment of anxiety.

Surprisingly, he waited, standing with his hands in his pockets, as if caught in the doorway, neither in or out. You always knew he had seen you, but now he was looking at you, really looking. All that confidence you'd garnered from familiarity fled as you stood in front of him, not sure what he was seeing this time. He offered you a small smile, as crooked as his broken nose. Neither of you spoke for long enough that it was both noticeable, and, for you, uncomfortable. Finally you broke, offering him a thin-lipped, nervous smile of your own. "Come on, I'll buy you a coffee."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Civility. Normality. You don't flag down the harried waitress, she's busy taking complicated drink orders from the hipsters. Instead you catch her eye and then slide behind the counter, helping yourself to two black coffees, brushing aside her gratitude as you tuck a crumpled five note in her apron while she fights with the espresso machine. Turning you noted Castle had picked a spot where his back was against the wall and he could see the door, just as you expected. Placing one cup by his hand, you slid into the booth across from him, sipping your drink and staring at the split knuckles on his hands, unsure what to say next. "How long were you there, did you catch my whole set?" You weren't even sure you wanted the answer to that question.

"Yes ma'am." Frank answered quietly, sipping from his cup as if it was mana from Heaven, not diner sludge that had been left on the burner too long. You felt colour returning to your cheeks, despite yourself, and lapsed back into silence. The pair of you sat, drinking lukewarm coffee like it was the only thing between you and death. When you finished, you stood, gathering your cup, though he was still nursing his own.

"Thanks for the company." He paused, looking at you in surprise. Maybe he'd expected sarcasm. Maybe he'd expected more conversation than you'd managed to dredge up to fill the space, but part of you knew this man, better than most people thought some passing waitress knew them. He wasn't a man of many words, and his silence had weight that most people's speeches did not. His silence said 'I am comfortable in this moment, sitting with you.' Feeling brave, you placed a hand over one of his own massive, calloused paws, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "See you around."

Turning you left the diner, a small smile on your face, steps lighter than they had been since you'd moved. Even if you had friends, you'd have cherished this secret all for yourself. You had coffee with The Punisher, and he liked your song.


	3. Chapter 3

More than two weeks passed before you saw him again, though saw wasn't really what you would call it. It was a Friday afternoon, and you had just finished a morning shift at the diner. Wandering down the street, you just wanted to be as far from hipsters and grouchy old men as you could possibly get. Days like today made you feel as if your cheeks would split from the effort of forcing yourself to smile for hours on end. Not paying attention to where your feet took you, you found yourself back at the pawn shop. The young girl behind the counter smiled, greeting you by name and waving you on as you headed for your usual place in the back.

Here was your little slice of Heaven. Racks of old guitars marched along the back walls, bringing a genuine grin to your face, despite the hardship of your day. As if it had been waiting for you to arrive, a sense of calm pervaded your body as you ran reverent fingers over oak, teak, and mahogany. None of that newfangled electric nonsense back here, just pure acoustic gold, and inside, at the root of your calm, was a tiny twinge of jealousy... or was that avarice?

The shop owner, features proclaiming a strong familial bond between him and the young woman near the door, emerged from a back room to see who was browsing his wares. Seeing you there, he too shared a large smile, following it with a hearty chuckle. "Back again I see. So lucky, I am, that I have you to come and ensure all my pieces stay in tune. Luckier still is my daughter who does not have to listen to me plonk away at poor, abused strings.

The big man reached past your head, gently lifting down the rounded frame of a Style A Mandolin, the stain on the wood and the shape of the bridge indicated that the gorgeous creature was from the mid-to-late 1920s, and you felt your hands twitch with the need to hold her. "Here. She's a bit battered, but she still sounds sweet. Why don't you give her a go today?"

"Thank you, John." You accepted the guitar with a grateful sigh, caressing the chips and dents along her body. She was the star of his collection, and the fact that the kind man was willing to let you play her when there was no chance you could ever afford the $2500.00 price tag was a testament to how kind he was. Thanking him with your eyes, you settled back onto a convenient stool, and the pawn shop owner faded back towards the front of the store, leaving you your privacy.

Mandolins were a unique style, with a sound all their own. Plenty of guitarists looked down on these more delicate instruments. That was how you separated those that had passion, and those that just had a talent for plucking strings. They had a lightness of tone that gave them a sound so different from a standard guitar that it was hard to believe they were practically the same instrument. You plucked a few strings, testing the tune of the mandolin, adjusting a few pegs until she was just right. Searching your brain for the right song to warm up with, you settled on an old favourite.

The first few notes of Maggie May echoed through the shop, and after a few moments you were quietly singing to yourself along with the tune. The world dropped away, much like it did at the diner on Wednesday nights, leaving just you and the guitar in your hands. She was beautiful, and the fact that you only had this stolen moment of time with her made it all the more precious. From Maggie May, you transitioned into Handbags and Gladrags, adding little musical embellishments to enrich the sound.

After a dozen or so more songs, your hands started to cramp up, and the traffic in the store had picked up so you signaled to John that he could put the mandolin away, though doing so pained you. Laughing he patted your shoulder. "One day maybe, my friend." As you exited the building, you thought you saw a familiar ball cap out of the corner of your eye, but when you turned to get a better look, there was no one there. Checking your wallet and mentally inventorying your fridge, you made the snap decision to stop at the bodega on your way home for some much-needed essentials.

The corner store was always full of neighbours and familiar faces, much like the pawn shop. It was funny, though you hadn't been in the area long, the place had started to really feel like home in a way that your old place never had. Smiling, you silently sent a thank you out to your unknowing benefactor as you grabbed a jug of milk down from the top shelf for Mrs. Chan before selecting one for yourself. Groceries purchased, you made the rest of the trek to your apartment, humming the chords to Maggie May as you went.

What greeted you at your door stopped you dead in your tracks, and you dropped your paper bag of goodies, one lonely soup can escaping to roll down the hallway. There at your door, with a post-it note stuck to the front, was the Style A you had been playing earlier in the day. You'd recognize the scratches along the neck anywhere. Rushing forward, half-convinced it was all a dream, you picked her up, lightly fingering the now-familiar curve of her tail pin. Though the writing was unfamiliar, a warm feeling welling within you was fairly certain who had placed the post-it on the mandolin.

**_Never heard Rod Stewart played like that._ **

A small smile spread across your face, and dreamily you made your way into your apartment, shopping abandoned on the floor of the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

The next month went by in a blur. Two of the servers at the diner had quit, and you found yourself picking up extra shifts to help cover the loss. A few new hires had come, leaving before you even learned their name. It constantly surprised people how many rules there were, and how difficult the work could be when they considered it 'just pouring coffee at a diner.' You didn't mind helping out in the interim, but you missed your Wednesday nights on the other side of the counter. The musicians still greeted you with quiet camaraderie, but the line was tenuous, and you were quickly fading to the other side.

The worst part of it all, is you'd barely had any time to spend learning the mandolin's quirks and stutters. She was a gorgeous instrument, and you'd jury-rigged some particle board into a stand for her, but all you could really do these days is run longing fingers across her curves on your way out the door, half-toasted bagel clasped in one hand as you rushed to make your shift in time. One of these days your relationship with the snooze button was going to cost you, but today... today was not that day. You still had plenty of time to make it to the punch-in clock at work just before it changed over.

Or so you had thought.

To be fair, even if the only thing that had gone wrong was the accident one street over from you making traffic a congested mess, you probably could have made it. There would have been more running than you preferred engaging in, particularly this close to the time when you first opened your eyes for the day, but it would have been do-able. Unfortunately, the traffic wasn't your only obstacle on the way to work. Just two blocks from the diner, you stopped, abruptly turning down a dark alley, face set in a grim expression. There was a pained yelping sound coming out of there, and every other person who just walked on by was going to find themselves permanently on your shitlist for not giving a damn.

You walked softly, keeping low and quiet as you examined the filthy alley for the source of the sound. Finally you saw him, tucked up under a dumpster. His fur was matted and he was covered with grime, but what stood out most about the pup was the gash in his left foreleg, oozing blood that the poor thing kept lapping at. Clearly even that hurt him, because he would whimper and shiver. You crouched low, holding a hand out, palm up, to the dog. "Poor boy, poor baby. Are you hurt little love? Come, let me have a look at you. Can I get you out from under there baby?"

At first the dog flattened his ears, drawing his lips back in a snarl, but as you remained in place, keeping up your coaxing litany in a calm voice, he seemed to relax, eventually trying to pull himself out from under the dumpster, falling as his paw refused to hold his weight. Slowly, inch by inch, you moved closer to him, constantly speaking in that same quiet voice, staying directly in his line of sight until you were even with the dog. First thing, you held your hands directly by his muzzle, letting him smell them, until he tentatively licked your palm.

Telling him what a good boy he was, you moved your one hand to the top of his head, digging fingers through the mattes and dirt to scratch behind his ears, your other hand tucking along his chest and under his belly. Once you had your arm underneath his body, right until his head was even with your shoulder, you moved your other hand slowly down his back, checking for other injuries before wrapping that arm around his backside, bringing your hand around his front to brace him properly. Still moving slowly, you pulled him out from under the dumpster and stood, never once pausing as you told him what a good, brave boy he was being. Once you were standing, the wee thing offered you another tentative lick, this one to the side of your face, causing you to giggle.

"That's my good, brave boy. Such a good boy. Let's take you home and get you cleaned up and taken care of my baby." You ignored the looks you got going back down the sidewalk, and the suspicious buzz from your pocket that was likely your boss demanding to know where you were. He had a no strikes policy, and you were pretty sure 'I found a dog' wasn't on the list of acceptable no call/no show excuses. Oh well, you would just have to rely on what was left of your savings while you found another job. This was more important.

Up in your apartment, you placed the dog in the bathtub, murmuring comforting words as you ran the tap to let the water heat up. Kneeling on the tiles in your work uniform, you used what you had, some baby shampoo and your own hairbrush, along with an old margarine container to slowly work the filth and tangles from the dog's fur. He was so very well behaved, whining a little, but otherwise putting up no resistance. As he came clean, it became clear that he was a mottled combination of black and soft tan fur, long and thick. Grinning, you lifted his face in your hands, gently wiping at his muzzle with a cloth.

"You've got a bit of Shepherd in you, don't you my handsome boy? Maybe some Lab or Rottie with this big handsome face and all that dark on top. No wonder you're so tough. You're so scrawny though my lad, and wee. Are you a runaway teen?" You playfully scold him, receiving a few more happy licks to the face. "Well my boy, I have to look at that paw now, you be nice to me and I'll be as gentle as I can, okay?" With tentative hands you prod gently at the injured paw with a cloth, finally sighing in defeat. "Baby, that's more than I can treat here. We have to take you to a vet. It's probably for the best anyway. Let me just find something to change into."

Standing, you helped the dog out of the tub, vigorously rubbing him with your own towel, before laughing as he shook water all over your bathroom. "Well then! I guess it needed a good cleaning anyway." The dog suddenly pushed against your leg, attempting to get past you while moving on three paws, a growl rising in it's throat. "Little man, what's gotten into y-" Your voice dropped off as you turned, a familiar figure blocking the bathroom door. One hand moved to the dog's scruff, taking hold as you offered a nervous smile. "Uhm... how did you get in here?"

He frowns, looking from the dog to your soaking, dirt-streaked uniform. "You didn't lock the door. Why wasn't it locked?"

Making an exasperated sound you bent down, wrapping the dog tighter in the towel and picking him up. "I was distracted. Do me a favour? There's a spare key in the drawer by the fridge. Lock up on your way out, I have to get this guy to the emergency care clinic before it closes."

A muscular arm crosses your vision, blocking your path and the man the media loved to call a killer frowned at you, confusion clearly painted across his brow. "You-"

Interrupting with a shake of your head, you nudged him with a still-booted foot. "I'm serious Frank. This guy needs a vet, and I don't have time for a lecture." You tried to push past him, but you would have had more luck going through the wall on either side of him. Fuck but the man was stubborn.

He surprised you by reaching forward, gently disentangling the dog from your arms until he was holding the little guy. "Go get changed. I've got him." You moved to protest, and he just knit his brow into that disapproving scowl again, stepping slightly to the side, as if he was angling you towards your bedroom. "I've got him."

With a grunt of dissatisfaction, you conceded, heading down the rather short hall to get changed. He wasn't going to budge, and though the pup was small, you didn't really want to carry him all the way across town. "Give the pup some water while I'm getting changed!" You called down the hallway, trying to convince yourself that you were still in charge. "And I think there's some leftover Salisbury Steak in the fridge. He can have that too."


End file.
